


A Sword and Shield in Gentle Hands

by testosterown (AnimusOrigo1)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU with a brother, M/M, Slow start?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimusOrigo1/pseuds/testosterown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Devon Trevelyan, the elder of the two Trevelyan brothers, is gifted with the Mark. Word catches on, and his protective little brother joins the Inquisition to support his timid sibling. Devon slowly falls for Blackwall, but it seems the two are destined to test each other, along with the rest of Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed an error at the end of this chapter regarding the nature of the Ostwic Circle of Magi. I rectified it to be more consistent with the codex entry for the Trevelyan Inquisitor. Apologies to anyone who might have noticed!

Chapter One: The Sword

 

            Dawn touched the expansive horizon of the Free Marches, and it warmed the land with a golden splendor that often put the younger Trevelyan sibling into a pensive bout. Dylan Trevelyan gazed upon the trees, sections of the woodland scorched by magefire caused by the mage-templar war that had been waged for four years. The gentle kiss of the sunrise seemed all for naught, blackened wicked fingers of trees reached up to the sky in envy of what they could not have. 

            But Dylan set that aside when a letter was placed on his desk. The servant bowed to him and left promptly, as he did every time he left a letter for the mage to read. The young man fixed his golden bangs, hair that framed a sharp but comely face as he looked to the letter. He saw the seal was broken, but he knew the eye of old it represented. As he took the letter out, he saw the Inquisition had addressed this to his mother, father, and himself. His older brother wrote to him, a few days after the explosion of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

 

            _To Mother, Father, and Brother,_

 _I’m sure you’ve all heard murmurs of what transpired at the delegation. Everyone sadly passed save for I, obviously, and even then I come out all the more changed in ways I cannot fathom. While being a mage means I command a terrible power I must keep in check, I walk away from the Breach with something all the more enigmatic. People say I am the Herald of Andraste, but that I am not certain of. What I am certain of is that I can seal the rifts in the Fade caused by the incident, and it is imperative I do so. Thedas is in its trying times, as am I and those who aid me. But people look to me now, and I must set the example that our trying times in this life are our trials. The world will do well to remember that as this conflict shapes it._

_To Bann Trevelyan, my father, I know your concerns about my boldness and the fire of Andraste within, but I think this experience will help alleviate those concerns. If I am to lead the house of Trevelyan, this experience shall steel me for the task._

_To Joyce Trevelyan, my mother, worry not for me. The Inquisition not only needs the power I have, all of Thedas will need to see the gentle hand of mages to ease ire born from misunderstandings._

_To Dylan Trevelyan, my little brother, keep vigilant as you always do. You are a fierce and talented knight-enchanter, far bolder than I ever have been. You shall do all mages a service, even without me to mend all of your scrapes._

_I wish you all the best, and I hope you wish me the Maker’s blessing. This will be a hardship for all of Thedas, but I know we will pull through._

_Love, Devon Trevelyan._

            Dylan took in a deep breath, lips thinned as storm clouds rumbled where his line of thinking once was. He slipped the letter back in its envelope and started to gather his things. Devon was not tackling this alone, and the boldness he mentioned was exactly the reason the younger brother felt obligated to leave home. Devon needed a sword, and Dylan was set on becoming just that. 

            It was those four years ago that the Circle he and his brother were involved in an incident in the Free Marches, an anomaly among his city's Circle. Not long after the uprising of Kirkwall’s, he was but thirteen years of age, his brother sixteen when they fled rogue templars who defied the sedate nature of the Ostwic Circle of Magi. Dylan would not forget that it was Devon that stood in front of Templar blades so that he could be safe. It was a moment outside of his older brother’s timid nature, something so brazen and nearly rash. It was an act that he felt must be reciprocated. Despite how thankful he was to avoid the tragic fate of almost everyone in the Conclave, a part of him was guilty for not helping Devon with negotiations to end the war that nearly ended him in the first place.

            With that, he met with his mother and father to speak, for once, without decorum. It was his hope that he would be sent with an escort to Haven in the Frostback Mountains to aid his, at times tepid, brother. Devon might have the world’s attention, good or ill, but he would not suffer it alone.


	2. The Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devon reflects on the journey so far, traveling back to Haven after acquiring the Warden.

            Devon Trevelyan had little clue how his presence had changed the face of Thedas. He had even less knowledge that Thedas shifted around each movement he made, a ripple made every time his finger touched upon the pond. Though it was rarely that he wanted to think of his hand, even in the abstract. The mark was a green he rarely liked seeing. It was not the green of the trees of the Free Marches, it was the same sickeningly bright color he could barely recollect when he ran for his life at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and that same green the Breach emanated like a pulsing scar rife with the Fade.

            Though, for now, the scope of the Herald’s actions did not seem so grand outside of what his mark meant. It had been a week since the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and his nerves were rattled by all the expectations thrust upon him. But he had a long time to think with his ride from the Hinterlands to Haven, the Frostback Mountains as bitterly chilly as ever. He shrunk in his furs and thought warm thoughts when his burden did not concern him.

            He had gone back there to go investigate reports of a lone grey warden. What he found was indeed a lonely looking warden, and found nothing regarding their disappearance. This was not to say he found nothing of worth, for to say such a thing would be a disingenuous statement.

            Those who rode beside Devon were Solas, Cassandra, Varric, and Warden Constable Blackwall.

             The grey warden was a dutiful sort, from what Devon saw of him. He seemed practiced and driven to defend others. Devon wasn’t sure if he would ever forget when he blocked an arrow he didn’t even see coming, or when he inspired the men he conscripted. Blackwall didn’t save them; he showed them how to save themselves. He spoke of duty and honor, and seemed to move as if those concepts were innate in his very being when it came time for battle. Though, there times where he seemed burdened; hunched and folded in on himself. One of those times seemed to be now, and it perplexed Devon to no end.

            Regardless, he always had his fancies for the honor-bound knights and the men who lived and died by his convictions and the convictions of those he served. Such men made Thedas seem bright, if only for those moments. The Grey Wardens were a more grim bunch, the armor they donned not so much as shiny than in his fantasies, though all the same they held their ideals proudly and do a great good in a world where there are so precious few.

            Though Devon’s pensive trance had shattered when the man spoke. “Are you alright, Devon? You seem preoccupied.” Blackwall said.

            The Herald smiled and shook his head gently. “I am fine. This is a quiet ride and sometimes I retreat into my thoughts when nothing else is available.”

            Varric then interjected, “Now, now, Hero. Leave Handsy be, quiet’s sort of who he is. For now.”

             Blackwall furrowed his brows. “Handsy?”

            Devon frowned. “For now?”

            The dwarf gave a gentle chuckle. “He’s a top-notch medic, but I can tell when someone lingers a little too long in their ministrations. Of course, it’s naturally a constant endeavor for me.” He said to Blackwall, afterward looking to Devon. “And it’s easier to make a compelling hero with some dialogue.” He finished with a wink.

            Blackwall eyed the Herald, and noticed the spattering of red on Devon’s cheeks. He took in a deep breath and changed the subject, “Regardless, I am sure you have many things to think about, Herald of Andraste. I would imagine there shall be no shortage of them any time soon."

            Devon shifted in his saddle and surrendered himself to a bout of intense shivering. Before anyone could give their concern, the Herald muttered a warming charm to ease the piercing cold. Though he quaked less, the frail and spindly slip of a thing still seemed to suffer in the cold.

            The Warden raised a brow at the young, comparative to him, mage. The Herald was a fair and comely man, features blessed by youth and noble birth. It was clear he lived a sheltered life in the Circle, by the wispy build and the way he carried himself in battle. Blackwall remembered clearly the battles in the Hinterlands, how Devon seemed to shrink back at foes and stood tall only near his allies. In fact, Blackwall saw little of his offensive magic. Devon seemed content mending and creating barriers rather than be what the warden expected of a mage.

            Regardless, unremarkable hours passed until they finally saw Haven. Blackwall was left reeling, not inspired by any sort of splendor or awe, but shock that the Inquisition was as humble as it was. Though he couldn’t completely scoff at their holdings, they were at least enough to contain what they had. He could admire the fervor of the raucous men who sparred at the front, young men all a part of an important cause.

            As they reached the chantry building, two others awaited the both of them. One was another young man, hair shaved save the top, and the other a willowy woman, fair despite the dourness that clung to her resting face. She appraised Blackwall briefly, eyes smooth in how they scanned the warden, but her attention settled on the Herald. “You have two people asking for you by name, Devon. One stands before you, the other is your brother.” She said, as Cassandra, Solas, and Varric dispersed.

            Devon lofted his brows. “Dylan? I-… thanks, Leliana.” He said as his eyes blinked slowly. “I told him not to worry about me, but alas…” He paused, and bowed his head to the other man. “I am Devon Trevelyan, though some call me the Herald of Andraste.”

            “My name is Cremisius Aclassi,” The man started, “I’m here to ask you come appraise our mercenary company. Bull’s Chargers would like to work with the Inquisition, if you have the coin.”

            Blackwall was impressed by how Cremisius carried himself, a professional demeanor with head held high and words smooth without seeming overly casual. Devon seemed to consider him, a cant of the head given as he thought.

            Cremisius spoke again, “If you have an interest in our services, come find us at the Storm Coasts. The Iron Bull will be glad to see you.” He said, as he turned and left.

            Devon gave a wave as he spoke, “I’ll be sure to!” With a smile that was as bright as his magic, an endless warmth that radiated to all that had the privilege of being near it.

            Leliana cleared her throat. “Your brother awaits, Herald. We should not keep him waiting.” She said as she guided Devon to where he resided. With a bow of the head, she regarded Blackwall. “It is good to have you, Warden Constable.”

            Blackwall could only wonder how the woman could know who he was, before he set himself on the task of finding his station in Haven, and in the Inquisition.


	3. And the Hand to Guide Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devon speaks to Blackwall in Haven, an attempt to get to know him.

            Midmorning danced along the peaks of the Frostback Mountains, a golden string draped across the silhouette of the jagged range. The cold was bitter, but no less bitter than the weeks that Devon made Haven his new home. Though despite that, he spent more times in the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast than the headquarters of the Inquisition, enough to renew the sting with each return. Even so, it was the least of the unpleasant things that piled onto the Herald of Andraste. The ongoing mage-templar war and the demons pouring out from every which way from rifts were burdens that became weightier on his shoulders each time he came back to Haven to regroup. Whether it was the guilt that came with resting, the wearily hopeful faces of those who greeted him, or that great tear in the sky that constantly reminded him that did such things to him, it didn’t matter one bit. He gave himself a gentle reminder, that his trying times were his trials.

            Regardless, Devon wiped his face of the snow that gathered on his face. The wind was against him this day, and he was sure the bitter chill that assaulted him did nothing for his youthful face. With the way he wore his hair, a braided ponytail with bangs to mask his forehead, he seemed nearly more a comely maiden than a proper man of his age.

             Though despite murmurs in his mind about the climate, it was all the better to see Dylan. He was at the forge, commissioning a blade for his staff. He took a fanciful delight in the coincidence, as Devon himself came to do the same thing. Though he found it discomforting that he resorted to doing what he did. It seemed to spell a poignant transition from practicing magic in an enclosed Circle, studiously and heat-treated in its execution, to a very visceral application of their skills. Both he and his brother were preparing for a war that started so suddenly.

             But before he held himself up with his own thoughts any further, Devon gave his brother an idle wave. Dylan gave a curt nod in acknowledgement in return as he finished his order to the blacksmith.

             “Devon.” Dylan greeted, as he took Devon’s staff. He handed it to the blacksmith. “Give the Herald what I asked for, as well.” He said to the blacksmith. With that, he beckoned his brother to walk with him. “I do wonder what father would think of all this. I barely could read him when I asked to come here, with the shock still so fresh. According to the family, we were to be part of the Chantry, or Templars. At least before we showed our gifts. And now, you’re called the Herald of Andraste. I wonder how he would take it, his eldest called something so heretical.”

             Devon scratched the back of his head, lips pursed in thought as the two brothers walked. “I’m-… I’m not sure. I hope he knows that this was not my choice. I very much don’t like the title, but my advisors say I keep it. They say that whatever nasty rumors it may land me are not outweighed by the potential benefits.”

             An affectless shrug from Dylan, “I suppose they aren’t wrong. Yours is a face people will recognize, and it is good to have a title and a name to place with it. Herald of Andraste is much less of a mouthful than ‘The Man Who Can Seal Those Rifts’.”

             Devon gave a small laugh in response, “I suppose you’ve a point.” He said. Though, before he continued further with the subject, he leaned to see past Dylan, and saw Blackwall near the entrance to the smithy’s hovel. “Thank you for placing the order for me, Dylan. I need to speak to the new member of my inner circle. I’ll find you later tonight.”

             Dylan nodded before he departed; content to let his commissioner work alone as Devon made his way to the grey warden.

             The Herald smiled at Blackwall, with a wave to catch his eyes. “Warden Blackwall!” He called.

             The burly bear, dressed down to the padding under his armor, furrowed his thick brows at Devon. “There’s no need for the title. ‘Blackwall’ is enough.”

             Devon canted his head for a moment and spoke, “I see! In any case, I’m thankful that you joined the Inquisition. Your skills will be valued within our ranks.”

             Blackwall shrugged, a nearly boneless motion. “Don’t get too excited. Wardens are trained well, but you’ll learn to temper your expectations. I’m not going to be sealing demon holes from the Fade or anything flashy like that.”

             “I… I suppose not.” Devon started, as he scratched the back of his neck, “Though, I am glad you are here nonetheless! Have you any thoughts about the Inquisition so far? Any needs you need accommodated? It’s hard to expect the best from those I don’t provide the best for, after all.”

             Blackwall lofted his brows at that. “I suppose that’s not untrue, though, do you give this treatment to every soldier in the Inquisition? You’re awful eager to serve, for someone who’s a bit higher up than the others.”

             The Herald blinked slowly. A pause, lips pursed in thought before he replied again, “I-… do it for who I can, I suppose. Though, I suppose I dote more on those who would travel with me personally. The inner circle is for the best in the Inquisition, so it is my duty to provide the means to be the best.”

             Blackwall gave a throaty chuckle at that. “Now this is something. You’re a Trevelyan, yes? The name rings a bell. A noble house, if I’m correct.”

             Devon blinked. “You know about the nobility of the Free Marches?” He asked, head canted in the other direction, “But… then I suppose Blackwall doesn’t sound like an Orlesian name to have.”

             “Correct, you are.” Blackwall started, “I’m a Marcher, myself. I’m somewhat familiar with Ostwick, passed through a few times in my travels. It’s a nice place, heard it had a forgiving Circle too.”

             “You’re… mostly correct! Though, a few Templars weren’t content with the situation. They heard what happened in Kirkwall and tried to do some…” Devon gulped, “Preemptive justice. I had to protect my brother, and I thank the Maker I studied so much with spirit magic. Barriers and healing are as valuable as a well-placed fireball, and it let me save my brother without excessive force.”

             Blackwall seemed impressed, brows lofted once more with a hint of a smile. Such things made Derek’s gut warm something fierce, but he steeled himself as the warden replied, “Impressive. One Templar would be enough for what you described, but it seems they couldn’t break you. And for all that, you still had no thoughts of killing them.” He seemed to eye the Herald then, eyes sizing up his form. He was spindly and wispy, but it was Devon’s above average height that kept the young mage from being dwarfed by others. “It’s no wonder you were a part of peace talks, Devon. You’ve a kind heart.”

             Devon rubbed his face at that, a smile this time could not be contained as he sputtered his reply. “You-… ah. Thank you! You’re very charming for someone I found out in the woods alone, you know.”

             The Warden chuffed at that, a facetious smile plastered on his bearded face, “And you’re very empathetic for a noble born.”

             Devon’s face reddened, a warmth that crept up and became a brief respite of the cold. Before Devon could say something he might have regretted, Dylan’s voice cut through the brief debate in the Herald’s head. “Devon! The blacksmith has questions about the staff modification.”

             “O-oh.” Devon muttered under his breath, before he turned his head and called out, “I’ll be there momentarily!” Before he departed, he turned to Blackwall with an apologetic smile. “It appears I’m needed. I will speak more to you later, War-… Blackwall. I look forward to it.”

             Blackwall waved a hand dismissively. “Go, go.” He started, “I’m not going much anywhere without orders. I am here when you need me.” He said.

             Devon gave a bright smile, and ambled off to the smithy. The young Herald would think of tempering his temptation soon enough, but not while his fancies were so fresh on his mind.


	4. Words That Seem Paltry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Redcliffe, Blackwall reassures Devon of events that should have never happened, and perhaps didn't.

            It wasn’t too long before Blackwall decided that Devon had enough time to process the events at occurred at Redcliffe Castle. The ‘negotiations’ that occurred with the Tevinter Magister were quite what Blackwall was expecting. Despite Devon’s soft tongue, it was not long before everything escalated and was soon taken care of via force. It was the natural conclusion to the conflict, and rather cleanly done at that.

            Though, what happened for Blackwall and Dylan and what Devon and Dorian experienced were clearly two different things, with the way Devon came out of the flash that Alexius had conjured. The Herald had eyes like a man who saw too many things, eyes like men who saw their first war. The most he and Dylan could get out him parroted what Dorian had explained. Devon experienced a dire future that wasn’t supposed to happen. Thedas fell into chaos, the Breach was allowed to fester in the sky, and it seemed that everyone who wasn’t Dorian or Devon met a terrible fate.

            Blackwall shuddered to think about what would have happened to him. Dorian merely said he was addled by some sort of Red Lyrium. He remembered that Varric’s smile vanished at the mention of it, and the he wanted to speak with Devon immediately after. Dylan insisted he go as well. After that, Andraste, they were gone for a while. As for Blackwall and Dylan’s ultimate fate, Dorian only said that they, “…at least died bravely.”

            _Maker’s balls_ , that can’t have been pretty to see. Varric said that Devon ambled off the smithy, said he had to talk to someone. Perhaps, Blackwall thought, they were of the same mind and sought each other out. As he made his way back to his usual post, he wasn’t surprised that he was next. After all, Blackwall was the man Devon saw suffer his fate in person. With the way he made those eyes at the stable before, and the way he acted the blushing maiden, there was no telling how Devon took it. It was some sort of unreality with all the punch to the gut reality could muster. 

            Blackwall made his way to his station near the smithy, and saw Devon ready to leave. The Warden caught a grateful smile from the Herald as he arrived, the young mage stopping in his tracks. “Oh! Blackwall. I was just searching for you.” He began with a smile more uneasy than the first, “I was wondering if there was anything you needed. If Alexius’s spell hurt you, or had you see anything, or…” He trailed off as Blackwall raised a hand. 

            “Devon. I know you saw, no… experienced rather awful things because of the time spell Alexius cast. Maker’s balls, Devon, you saw everyone die save Dorian.” Devon deflated in response. Blackwall’s lips pursed for a moment and he let out a long exhale before he spoke again, “But I didn’t need to remind you, did I?” 

            Devon scratched the back of his neck and offered a shrug. “It’s fine. You meant no offense by it.”

            Blackwall shook his head. “I-…” He paused, and mustered the words carefully, “Look, if you need someone to speak to about it, I’ve two working ears and the ability to listen. 

            Devon pursed his lips. His eyes darted this way and that, and Blackwall feared that pushing this further just might have scared him off. Though, with a deep exhale, Devon found the courage to speak, “I… suppose it will be good to do so, yes. As everyone feely says, the alternate future I experienced was a very grim situation.”

            “I suppose my first question should be, then, is are you alright?” Blackwall bothered not to scrutinize with his eyes Devon’s mannerisms, for it was clear that the Herald resigned himself to silent and stoic suffering. 

            “At the nonce, yes. Whatever was there before is not here now, and what lied before me then stands here now. That is what matters.” 

            Blackwall leaned back against the shed and asked his next question then, “What exactly happened to us, then?” 

            “You and Dylan…” Devon paused, and it was at that moment Blackwall’s eyes gauged his actions once again. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a brief moment, but he continued on, “You both had been exposed to Red Lyrium for a whole year in dungeon cells. Varric was surprised you both weren’t completely mad, though addled you still were.  When Dorian prepared the spell to send us back, the both of you and Leliana died holding the line so that the demons would not stop it.” 

            Blackwall pursed his lips. It was about what Dorian described, with more words. “It had to have been hard to watch us die, but if it meant setting that whole thing right… well. I suppose even when I’m a bit touched in the head, I know what the meaning of sacrifice is. It would have been a decision I’d have made now. Your brother had to have known that, as well.” And though what he said was to comfort Devon, the latter part of his statement seemed to be just as much for Blackwall as it was for the other. While the warden never doubted Dylan’s character, the younger brother was undoubtedly frigid and curt. But for the nonce, he continued. “Did you talk to your brother about this?” 

            “I have. Dylan felt about the same way. It’s… off-putting, hearing people tell me that they would die at my feet for me. All of this sacrifice, all because I have this _thing_ I cannot explain. Everyone tells me its necessary, but I still do not like it.” 

            “There are a lot of necessary things in life we do not like. Some are thrown into more than others, and all we can do is commend those who bear the heaviest burdens. At least, in an ideal world.” 

            Devon looked down, and soon met Blackwall’s eyes again, “I suppose I should be doing a lot of commending, then.”

            With a smile, Blackwall chuffed. “That you might, Devon.” 

            He could hardly say his smile was infectious, but Devon seemed to beam at the sight of it. “Thank you, Blackwall. The sort of sacrifice you and all Grey Wardens know of is something all of Thedas could stand to hear. I’m glad you’re here to help set that example for the Inquisition.” 

            Blackwall’s insides churned at Devon’s words where there should have been warmth. He knew that his own paltry words shouldn’t be praised so, and that he wasn’t worth the admiration Devon lavished him with. He had to end this here, lest he delve too far to ever come back out. “Well, with that, I suppose it’s time to head back to our work. I’ve things to prepare, and I’m sure you’re as busy as ever as we prepare to close the Breach.” 

            Devon blinked hard at that, but otherwise continued, “I-. I suppose if you are busy, we can speak another time. Thank you again.” He said, before he gave a wave and trotted off to do whatever it was that Heralds did. 

            However, the churning did not stop. It didn’t occur to him just how far deep he already was, not even to notice that he felt an attachment to a man that would once feel for a woman. Maker’s _Balls_ , he hoped Devon had the strength to end this before Blackwall could promise things he could not give to someone he did not deserve. 

But before his thoughts could consume him, he saw Dylan at the forge with only a sword’s haft and a scrutinizing stare. Maker, had he been listening the whole time? But before he could think further, Dylan left without a word.


End file.
